Staring
by Chiimeriical
Summary: Hermione has hereby decided to Stop Looking At Snape Heatedly.


**Author's Note: **This hereby marks Chiimeriical's third attempt at the HG/SS pairing. Again, she would like to reiterate how humbled she is by your gracious response. And, as before, out of third person voice - I really do appreciate you all taking the time to review. It serves as inspiration and incentive. Anyway, this story is for all who have ever been stared at by a teacher, for lack of a better focus point.

**Disclaimer: **In no way is "Chiimeriical" an alias for "Rowling". I'd need Polyjuice Potion for that, and for the brewing of that potion, I'd need a Potions master. Oh, Severus, where are you when I need you?

**Warning:** This was a "spur of the moment" story - no planning whatsoever, and as I do not have a beta, no deep revision. I hope it's not too terrible.

**Post Script: **I hate the line breaks. They're very awkward looking, no? But FF has left me no choice, it seems...

* * *

At first, Hermione didn't think much of it at all. She was accustomed to his staring by now.

It wasn't unusual in the slightest: she realized that, oftentimes, teachers tended to require a focus point when delivering a longer lecture, and she was frequently the desired view, simply because she was always blatantly attentive. Looking at her, she knew, allowed the teachers to pretend they had a class full of eager students, instead of (realistically speaking) a bunch of dunderheads with only one enthusiast among the lot.

In the beginning, back before she'd gone round the bend, she made it her business to look back at Professor Snape whenever he stared at her, and smile. She avoided his eyes, mostly because she was cautious of Legilimency – surely a powerful wizard such as he had mastered it – but that didn't stop her from quirking her lips whenever his gaze settled on her, giving him her customary half smile. But then the insanity-inducing event happened, and she hadn't smiled or looked back at him like that since.

* * *

"_Three months ago, I gathered definitive evidence that I'm mental,_" she thought fondly, running her fingers over the worn spine of the novel she was currently disregarding. "_One would think I'd be less calm with such an enlightenment._" But instead, she sat in a chair in the library, a lazy smile on her face as she stared at nothing in particular. The smile on her face was evoked by memory: more specifically, the memory of discovering her overpowering crush on Professor Snape.

And therein laid the rub. She could no longer trivialize his staring at her, because her traitorous heart demanded she _analyze_ that stare. But doing so, she knew, would only end in heartbreak. The realistic side of her begged her to remember her previous explanation: that she was an easy target for staring during long lectures. McGonagall did it, and so did Flitwick – apply the idea that staring equated to passionate love, and she'd win the award for being "student most lusted after by all her teachers". But the foolish side – the side that demanded she follow her heart, and other such triteness – asked pitifully that she look deeper into that penetrating stare.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it, because part of her knew no mature man, especially one as sour as Snape, would ever look at her twice when she was this young. Yet Hermione would be shocked (and secretly delighted) to learn that the object of her recent affections – a certain dour Potions master – was thinking of her just as frequently.

* * *

When she had first decided to Stop Looking At Snape Heatedly – a plan she had jokingly (and only mentally) referred to as S.L.A.S.H. (acronyms had become 'her thing', it seemed) – it was out of a misguided attempt at self-preservation. If she kept looking at him so deeply, it would soon become obvious to him how exactly she felt about him, and that would never do. In addition, a teensy part of her wanted to see whether not looking at him would affect him at all. She knew she was setting herself up for failure – the idea that a man of Snape's age and maturity would care one whit whether she looked at him or not was ludicrous in the extreme – but one side of her (the same side that encouraged the aforementioned triteness, that constantly spouted romantic anecdotes at her, and coincidentally the same side that she wanted to beat with a stick) held out hope that he'd do _something_, no matter how subtle, to gain her attention again.

For the next two weeks, she stuck to her pledge, never looking up in class unless she was answering a question, and even then, she kept her head down. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, much to her dismay. He did not request to speak to her after class, in order to demand that she look at him. He did not pass her any secret note, pleading for her to once again gaze back at him. In fact, he did not one thing Hermione had wished he would.

After the third week, she had all but given up hope. Not looking at him had sparked no reaction. Or so she thought.

When Snape first realized Hermione had started ignoring him, he didn't care at all. It did not make a difference – he had the attention of everyone else in the class, no matter how begrudgingly given, so he felt he did not need the undivided concentration of the know-it-all. Sure, he looked at her frequently, but it was nothing out of the ordinary for a teacher who delivered lectures.

But after the first week, he realized how often he thought about how much he (surprisingly) missed her eyes on him whenever he stood behind his lectern, his voice projecting through the class. He was accustomed to her eyes by now, though he could recall nothing particularly special about them – only that they were large and unhesitant. All the same, he missed their comforting presence. But this realization did not faze him. After all, it did not matter. She was just a know-it-all, large eyes and all.

* * *

By the second week, Snape was feeling strangely bereft. As the days had ticked by, and Hermione's eyes showed no intention to once again rest upon him, he had started imagining them in his mind's eye. They were brown – just brown, not chocolate, or mocha, or caramel, or any of those culinary adjectives commonly utilized by romantics – but they fascinated him all the same. They were light in colour, with only a thin black ring separating that luscious brown from the whites of her eyes. "_Did I just think her eyes were 'luscious'?" _He hadn't studied them _very_ closely, though he had looked into them more than once, and he couldn't help but think they looked like two pools of delicious toffee…

"_Damn it. No more thinking about her eyes, then."_

_

* * *

_

By the third week, Snape had craved her gaze so badly he was starting to plot ways to get her to acknowledge him once again. He ignored the voice in his head that berated him viciously (and with marked vulgarity) about how stupid he was acting. He couldn't help it! He was so _tired_ of the vapid gaze of the other students. Would it kill them to just _pretend_ to be interested, for once in their pitiful lives?

And hell, he'd call her eyes anything – coffee, mocha, toffee, caramel, even _cognac_, for Merlin's sake – if it meant he would finally be able to see the single most intelligent gaze that had ever been present in his classroom.

For hours, he agonized over the subtlest way to once again recapture her attention. He tried not to dwell on the fact that he was acting like a mooning schoolboy, and instead put his rather large brain to work, trying to formulate a plan. When he finally came to it, he smiled at its simplicity. Even with an aversion to egotism such as his, he couldn't help but think the plan was brilliant.

* * *

It had been four weeks – a full month – since Hermione had stopped looking back at him. Now, halfway through his Potions class, as his mind prepared for the delivery of his plan, he hoped his traitorous mouth would stick to his initial intention. Regardless of the fear that it wouldn't, he had to try.

"Now that you are all acquainted with the theory behind this potion, we shall endeavour to put that theory into practice. I must emphasise the danger that accompanies the brewing of this potion – though it pains me to do so, as I'd _so_ much rather watch you discover it on your own – and demand that your utmost attention be given to me as I demonstrate the proper technique," he stated. _"There, I have said it! No fear of… no, stop! Don't say more…"_

But it was too late. The double-crossing sentence slipped from his lips before he could stop it: "And that means your eyes must be on _me_, Miss Granger."

"_Damn it."_

_

* * *

_

As soon as Hermione heard him speak about the dangerous potion, she was at once exhilarated and despondent. This class day marked a full month since the advent of S.L.A.S.H., and she had given up all hope of ever getting a reaction. With her head down, she listened carefully to his menacing caveat, shivering at the contempt in his voice.

And then, at the sound of her name – her name on those wonderful lips – her head jerked up, and her eyes once again rested upon him. And she realized then that S.L.A.S.H. was an exercise in futility, and that she had been crazy to think she could accomplish its objective. The brown eyes met the black for the first time in a long while, and her lips quirked in that half smile Snape had missed so dearly. It then morphed into a full-blown smile, so great was her happiness at his acknowledgement of her.

But this meeting of the eyes was not even the jewel in the crown of her day.

No, the true glory was from an unexpected source, for Hermione was pleasantly surprised to realize that, this time, she wasn't the only one smiling – he, too, had acquired a minute quirk of the lips.

It was then that she realized she might have become accustomed to his staring by now, but all the same, its frequent occurrence lessened her joy not one whit.

And, well, if it required her to stare at him in order to be gifted with his smile, the voice in her head – the one that encouraged triteness – eagerly (and sappily) acquiesced. In fact, she had a niggling suspicion that she'd be happy to stare at him _forever_.

(She thought she really ought to experiment with a new characterization of his eyes, though. Using "liquorice" as an a adjective and a colour was getting old.)


End file.
